L. H. Spencer. She decided on L. Harrison Spencer. Now, she uses that signature for the last time.
L. Harrison Spencer
K. Randall Spencer
“And so it is done,” she says, knowing full well she is speaking.
f f f
“I know you’re in bed,” Bobbie says when Lena answers the phone. “You okay?”
“No.” Lena yawns into the phone. Outside, the afternoon sun beams through the window and creates a crisp parallelogram of light on the rug. “It’s been three days—I’ve broken the blue-funk rule, and I don’t care.”
The sisters created the blue-funk rule for themselves years ago to handle heartbreak or disappointment: one, and one day only, to cry, hibernate, stuff themselves with their favorite food—chocolate ice cream with nuts. An empty cardboard pint once full of chocolate ice cream with nuts and chunks of white and dark chocolate sits beside Tina’s autobiography on the long table doubling as a nightstand.
“I have good days and bad ones, Bobbie. This is a bad day. A very bad day. The worst.” Time to get back to the rule, and her time is overextended. “But, it’s my last one. I start work at the Oakland Museum in two weeks, and I signed up for another photography class in the winter quarter.”
“The hardest part is over. I’m glad you’re moving on. Compared to some people, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
More than once during the mediation process Lena has thought about other divorced women less fortunate than her with children to feed, no money, and a real fear of what comes next. She makes a double sign of the cross over her heart, thanks God for her blessings, and promises to donate a little extra to a shelter.
“Leave me alone.”
“You don’t need to be alone. You need to get your ass out of the bed. Look at it this way. At least when the final divorce papers are filed you won’t have to see him.”
Bobbie talks tough. Lena is unsure if Bobbie could take her own medicine if the tables were turned, having kept most details of her love life confidential throughout the years. They were not born into a family prone to share their business with outsiders. Who, she wonders, not for the first time, does her sister talk to when her emotional life gets jumbled and messy? This will be the way she pays Bobbie back: she will pick up the little hints Bobbie infrequently drops and be a better listener.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Time to get back to you. What about Tina Turner? Have you finalized your plans? Have you made plans?” Bobbie’s pen or fingernail taps against the phone, and Lena wonders when a little sister stops feeling like a little sister and begins to feel simply like a sister. She straightens, taps her fingernail against the phone, and tells her sister that she’ll get around to finalizing the arrangements when she gets around to finalizing the arrangements. There is still time to buy a ticket.
“Get up right now.”
Lena picks up the empty ice cream carton and licks the sides for what is left of the melted treat. “Let me have this last moment to sulk, please.”
“Just do it. For me.”
“That’s what Randall used to say.”
f f f
On the stereo Tina croons music meant for scrunching and slow dancing, for making love. A new loneliness tugs at Lena’s insides in a way that makes her draw her body into a fetal pose atop her bed.
Two weeks ago a forwarded invitation showed up in the mailbox alongside invitations to open new credit card accounts. It was the first time she’d been out after sitting in the new apartment for six weeks. Two weeks ago, the effort to pull herself together had been great, but she did, and she looked good in a sleeveless blue dress she hadn’t been able to wear in over a year. Lena left that party within twenty minutes of her arrival after a gentle-eyed, very short man caught her off guard with his oddball question: what kind of fool was the man who could leave someone as good-looking as you?
If Lulu is right—about Lena never following anyone’s advice, maybe, she thinks after Bobbie’s suggestion, she should start. Now. Cheryl would be delighted to get her out of the apartment, but Lena is not ready to take the plunge into her friend’s frenzied social life. Too bad she didn’t get Pink Slippers’ phone number. Flipping through her address book, Lena finds the pickings slim in the names of women she once called friend.